


So Fair a House

by Venturous



Category: BBC Sherlock
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-01
Updated: 2011-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:00:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venturous/pseuds/Venturous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>221 Baker Street has a profound effect on certain people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Fair a House

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Holmesverse](http://holmesverse.livejournal.com/) minibang challenge on the theme of "reasons & motives." How did people come to live at 221 Baker? We know how John came to live there, but how did Mrs. Hudson arrive, and how did Sherlock?
> 
> Warnings are for marital rape scene with the late Mr. Hudson

  
**Title:** So Fair a House  
 **Author:** [](http://venturous.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**venturous**](http://venturous.dreamwidth.org/)  
 **Fandom:** BBC Sherlock  
 **Characters:** Mrs. Hudson, Mr. Hudson, Greg Lestrade, Sherlock  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Warnings:** non-con (marital rape)  
 **Word count:** ~1500  
 **Disclaimer:** This is a transformative work of fan appreciation. No copyright infringement declared or intended.  


  
1965

Emily Thompson married Howard Hudson for his house. Well, for his family and their money to be sure, but she fell in love with 221 Baker Street the moment she walked in the door. She will never forget how they ran up the 17 steps, laughing as they stumbled into the front parlour.  Mr. Hudson, Senior looked up in surprise, elegant in his smoking jacket and Persian slippers, and drawing thoughtfully on his meerschaum pipe exclaimed “And who is this lovely lass, Howie?”  Emily blushed and took his hand, and was completely smitten.

Howard apologized for his daft family; he was embarrassed, but Emily was charmed. She loved Grandmama Hudson, gently daft and genuinely Victorian. And she clearly doted on Howard, Sr., who happily dwelt in a time before his own. She listened to his stories about the wonderful days when he’d been invited to fine soirees and bemoaned the modern loss of manners. Howard at first could not believe his good luck. “Emily, darling, I don’t know how you put up with their foolishness.” She patted his hand and smiled. “Off you go dear. I’ll stay and play rummy with them, and you go along to the pub with your mates. Have a fine time!”

1985  
“Bloody Hell, Emily, do you prefer the old bats to me? you always want to go round with Pop, or stay home with Grandmama. I cannot get your attention.” Howard bellowed as he stormed around their third floor rooms. “For gods sake, woman, did you marry him or me?” Emily sat primly on the edge of the bed, only her hands betraying her nerves. She wished she could soothe him, but her gentle way of “There, there dear, let’s just have a nice cuppa, shall we?” had the puzzling effect of sending him to the moon these days. “You can’t ‘handle’ me like you do those dottering imbeciles, Em.” he’d shout.  “I’m not a senile old fart, living in the past. I’m a man of action!” This he loved to declare, waving his arms about.

She smoothed the bedcovers as a substitute for more useful task. And waited for what she knew was next. Howard reached the end of his rant, and turned to face her. He studied his wife and her quiet demeanor, and it infuriated him. He grabbed her by the shoulders roughly.

If he could have explained himself, he would tell you that he needed her to look at, to talk to him. Her downcast eyes denied him any purchase in her mind. Her silence gave him nothing to argue with. He wanted to shake something loose, to awaken some reaction in her, no, to reawaken that laughing girl he had made love to a decade ago. Where was she? 

But what she would tell you is that he shook her roughly, enough to scare her and make her hang onto herself grimly, which angered him, and then he would haul her to her feet and slap her face shouting “Look at me, you stupid cow!” or “You’re my wife, dammit,”  She would try desperately not to cry, and Howard would force his mouth over hers, pushing his knee between her legs until she fell back against the bed. He would tear at her clothes, and take her, brutally, and she would cry, there was no stopping it now. And then he would zip himself up and leave with a sound of disgust, for himself or her, she didn’t really know. 

But she would go and make the tea for Pop and Grandmama, who was not well, and needed cheering. Thank goodness Howard would be gone for a while now. 

=====================

2004  
The first time he had approached this door it was a slightly brighter shade of green, and the knocker was polished. Of course, his hair was still full and dark, too. He gave the brass rope several hearty bangs, received no response, then had at it again with vigor. Then he cursed and began to kick the base of the door as well. “Damn it, Susan, open the fucking door! I know you’re in there!”

“Young man!” he wrenched his neck to peer upwards, from whence the voice was addressing him. A woman of an uncertain age was glowering down at him. “What in heavens name are you doing to my door?”  He gaped at her. “If you don’t stop it, I shall have to drop this pot on your head.” she continued, brandishing an African violet.

Not very large, he calculated, but still... “Where is my wife? Send her down immediately!” He tried to summon his best authoritative voice.

She set down the plant on the sill and studied him calmly. “I don’t think so, dear. For one thing, she no longer wishes to be considered your wife. Secondly, she is not to be disturbed.”

“OF COURSE she is my wife!” Lestrade bellowed. “AND< she is already disturbed, I can tell you that!” He recommenced his pounding on the door. Until a sharp crack on the head sent him staggering backwards. He fell down onto the kerb, stunned.

“I’m so sorry, dear. I didn’t want to have to do that. I really liked that plant, and I did warn you. Now please, stop raising a ruckus, and go on home now. Write her a nice letter, there’s a good lad. Bye bye now.”

Back home that night Greg poured himself a single malt, to wash down a paracetemol and help face the ghastly feeling of an empty house and an aching head. He finally remembered where he’d met that woman before. She played cards with Susan’s aunt.

Susan never did come home. She sent movers for her things. Greg moved out to a flat of his own. And a few years later he had a challenge he couldn’t solve. That’s when he went to see Mrs. Hudson.

  
2007  
“Oh, yes, dear. I remember you. How nice of you to replace my violet. It’s not quite the same sort, but it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?”  She graciously accepted the plant and ushered him into the hallway of 221 Baker Street. “Come along and I shall make us a spot of tea.”

Lestrade explained he was in need of good lodgings for a young man entrusted to his care, a rather eccentric young man, from a good family who were quite concerned about him, but somewhat at wits end in their dealings with the lad. “I want to level with you, Mrs. Hudson, he’s not your average fellow. He’s into science and investigations. He’ll keep odd hours. I don’t expect you to watch over him, per se, I just think this might be a calm and stable place for him.” He felt like he was babbling, and that she would surely toss him out, albeit politely, after this lengthy disclaimer.

But there was so much he wasn’t telling her: How Mycroft had dumped Sherlock in his lap, and told him to keep him alive, and enjoy a nice promotion to Chief Inspector. The consequences of failing were unstated, but plain enough. Sherlock had been in and out of lockup and rehab for a variety of increasingly dangerous substances since leaving uni. When he was functional, he thrived on investigating the underworld, and occasionally was of great help to Lestrade’s vice unit. But explaining that your informant and freelance undercover agent was also in lockup for dealing wasn’t flying past the brass any longer.

Sherlock’s last overdose landed him in hospital, where Lestrade met Mycroft.  During several long nights the younger Holmes likely won’t recall Mycroft made Lestrade an offer he couldn’t refuse.

So here he was, hoping that Mrs. Hudson’s house was indeed some kind of fortress for the deranged, and that she’d be letting rooms. And realizing what a stupid mess he was in.

“Why yes, dear, what fortunate timing! My dear husband has been, uh, detained on business in the States. I have lots of room, and could use the income and the company.”

=========================  
2010  
Sherlock was pacing the front room, which was a shambles, books strewn all over the floor and boxes of lab equipment piled on the desk. “Finally.” he huffed, irritably. “I can’t be bothered with this trifling case of yours, Lestrade.” Sherlock waved a long hand imperiously, not looking at the detective. “ I am preoccupied by another, more urgent, crisis.”

Greg sighed. He continued scanning the room for signs of real trouble, but detected no drug paraphernalia, not even a cigarette. Several boxes of nicotine patches. Well, good enough.

“Are you even listening to me? Why do I even BOTHER?” Sherlock was achieving a new level of dramatics.

Greg came out of his fog and studied the man before him. He smiled. Sherlock was alive. Brilliant, difficult, annoying, but very much alive.

Mrs. Hudson broke the tension by coming in with the mail and a tea tray. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and sank onto the sofa like a deflated balloon. Greg and Emily smiled at each other.

As she took the tray back down the stair, Emily Hudson patted the wall fondly.


End file.
